Chapter 2
It was the next Sunday. Monroe was sitting on my balcony drinking a Bludgeoned Mary, which was a Bloody Mary with triple the vodka. If I had simply bought larger glassware back in then day, we would’ve been pickled by now.
“My liver gets confused with too much vegetable juice,” he explained.
Monroe’s liver was so large and overworked by then that his other internal organs had up and flown south for the winter, which probably explained why his calves were so large, given that he didn’t exercise and would rather call Uber than walk up a hill. And since we live in San Francisco―Hill City, as it were―Uber is fairly kept in business by my lazy best friend.
“I’m leaving for the summer,” I segued to. Thankfully, I’m a teacher, my summers free―free and unpaid, but still.
“Mexico?” h
